Duality
by lamentomori
Summary: "For all John likes Phil, purely, simply and platonically, he wants CM Punk." A short little smutty tale in which Punk is overly wired and all John wants is to help his friend unwind. Warnings: 3rd person pov, Slash (Cena/Punk), smut.
1. Duality

Warnings: 3nd person PoV, slash (Cena/Punk), mild and infrequent profanity, curious play on kayfabe.

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><p><em>"John, you can call me Phil, you know.<em>" When John was first given that permission, it had come as a shock. The World according to CM Punk is neatly divided in two, the people who call him Phil and those who call him Punk. John Cena had firmly been on the Punk side of the divide until Money in the Bank, after Punk became the hottest property in wrestling and did he really have to describe himself as the _hottest_, that all changed. Punk became Phil and John _likes_ Phil, likes how quickly his mind works, how he has a quirky sense of humour, likes how he is actually a good friend, a good person underneath all of his annoyance. For all John likes Phil, purely, simply and platonically, he _wants_ CM Punk. CM Punk is all burning arrogance and self-assurance, it's incredibly sexy, the man is sexy in general but the way he, kayfabe Punk at least, drips with superiority is far too hot to ignore. _Phil_ seems a little less assured, not insecure by any means but as though deep down, there is a tiny glimmer of uncertainty. John _likes _Phil, he wants to be Phil's friend but he plain _wants_ Punk, wants to fuck him.

Storyline, kayfabe, _pretend_. John has to keep reminding himself that when he's standing in the ring with Punk_, this isn't what Phil is really like_, the same words over and over, trying to imprint them in his mind. It doesn't change the fact that when he's in the position to put his hands all over that body, when that body is wrapped all around him, all John wants is to throw the man down and fuck him, hard and fast over the nearest surface.

The line between kayfabe and reality is becoming more and more blurred, this so-called reality era, where fact and fiction are blurred together, makes life so much more difficult, makes keeping Phil, nice, funny, witty, sarcastic, hockey-obsessed Phil and Punk, witty, sarcastic, funny, sexy, manipulative, bitter, sleek, beautiful Punk, separate, more and more difficult. The neat divisions in John's mind keep getting blurred, it makes him worry that maybe he's becoming less John Cena the normal guy and more _super_ Cena in real life. It worries him that there is less kayfabe and more of him invested in his character, John isn't a saint, John isn't a superhero, he's a man, just a man. A man who _really_ wants to fuck the bastard unlocking the hotel room beside his. Its rare Phil is in full-on kayfabe Punk outside of publicity but he seems to be rather stuck on lately, his hair gelled, his lips twisted in that haughty smirk.

"You wanna come over, unwind?" It's a clichéd offer, John knows but really, he doesn't want Phil to be up all night, the man doesn't sleep well, perpetually needing to know what's going on, perpetually kept awake by a mind that rejects the rest his body needs. It's more Punk than Phil that meets John's eyes, lazy amusement glimmering in those sharp eyes. John wonders if he seems more like John Cena, the Champ or John Cena, the lonely divorcee at that moment. The best gimmicks in wrestling are those that are an exaggeration of a natural personality trait, sometimes John worries that it's too easy to forget that it is an exaggeration. He worries so much about Phil, how so often it's more likely that you're talking to a kayfabe construct than a real person.

"Sure thing, Boy Scout." Lazy smile, lazy drawl, calculating, sharp eyes, so very CM Punk. It somehow comes as no surprise that Punk has figured exactly what John really wants, when he's pressed against the door by that sleek body and kissed soundly, quick clever fingers diving under fabric to smooth over firm, solid muscle. John doesn't try to dominate the kiss, feels more like he's along for the ride, letting Punk dictate what he can and can't have. It probably sets a terrible precedent, John thinks, if he lets Punk take control here, Punk'll consider him a cakewalk and John Cena is a man who lives by the phrase _never give up_, there is not one ounce of quit in him, he is no cakewalk. He holds Punk's head still, battles his tongue back to his own mouth and tastes every inch of it. Punk tastes of gum and something utterly unfamiliar to John, unfamiliar but good. Finally confident that Punk has conceded the kiss to him, John lets his hands roam, down Punk's shoulders, to his trim waist, his tight ass, groping, stroking, trying to learn how this body feels when there isn't pseudo violence involved.

"Want you." Eventually John pants in Punks ear, he can feel Punk's firm length against his thigh, they've swapped positions, Punk is pressed against the door, one of John's thick firm thighs between the other man's legs, pressing against his groin firmly.

"Hmm." Punk doesn't really reply, merely squirms out from under John and pulls his gimmick shirt over his head, another sign that Phil hasn't come down fully from the night, he's still dressed in merch. Phil never wears merch willingly. John follows suit, stripping his own shirt off before grabbing the other man and kissing him once more, feeling the recently uncovered skin with the same enthusiasm he showed when it was still under cloth. Punk's hands are far from idle, aiming straight for John's pants, untying them with impressive dexterity, he takes John's cock in his hand and starts not so much stroking as solely teasing. John stops kissing and feeling up the man to moan against his neck and attempt to coordinate himself enough to tug the gym shorts Punk is wearing down enough to return the favour. It takes effort but John manages it eventually, however, Punk doesn't seem to appreciate the effort and shoves John down to the bed, sheds his pants and straddles John's legs, kissing him frantically, still stroking his cock.

John's never really _been_ with another man, hasn't really seen the appeal but he has taken a women like this. He knows that Punk will require lube and stretching and all manner of slow and patient things, yet Punk seems infinitely more interested in skipping all this and moving on to the fucking. He's writhing on top of John, rutting against him, rubbing their cocks together with his actions, even as John taps a dry finger against Punk's hole, trying to tactically show Punk that the next step is going to require some preparation.

"Wait." John reverses their positions easily enough, guides Punk face down onto the bed, tugs him so that his legs are hanging off the end of it, leaving him bent over, his ass in the air. John removes his pants, goes to his bag and grabs the little bottle of lube he carries, along with one of the condoms he has in case a ring rat manages to catch his eye. He coats his fingers and eases one into Punk. The man doesn't tense, takes it easily enough, a part of John is slightly disappointed, a part of him wanted Punk to be a virgin but it does mean that he can speed this along slightly, steadfastly ignoring the sullen little part of him that is wondering who exactly has taken Punk first. By the time John is working three fingers in and out of the other man, Punk is moaning softly, curiously softly, so gently that it's almost at odds with everything John knows to be true of Punk.

"Get on with it, Boy Scout." His tone is at least sharp and bitingly normal for him. John opens and rolls the condom over his cock, slicks more lube over it and lines up before admiring the view. Punk's hole looks so small, glistening with lube, softly pouting and pink, John brushes the head of his cock against it a few times, smearing more lube over it. Punk makes an impatient noise and thrusts back, forcing the head of John's cock into him, John's hands rush to the lithe hips of the other man, stilling his actions.

"Fuck, _wait_, Punk." John gasps, the man may not be a virgin but he's still exquisitely tight, his body squeezing and pressing around John like a vice. John rests his forehead against Punk's back, between his shoulder blades and enjoys the rippling contractions to the other man's muscles. "_Fuck_." John breaths against Punk's skin, the tightness, the warmth of his body almost overwhelming.

"C'mon, Cena, _fuck_ me." Punk rocks his hips as much as John's firmly grasping hands will allow, though it's not much movement he's able to get, it's enough to inspire John. He rocks forward into Punk, fully sinking into the other man's tight heat in one slow thrust, withdrawing equally slowly, gently fucking Punk, slow and thorough, gathering speed carefully, eventually fucking him with swift fluid strokes. "My shin's been fucked by a purse mutt harder than this, Cena." He might be letting John fuck him, press him down against the bed but it seems that even in _submission_, Punk doesn't concede, the man doesn't just roll over and play nicely. John laughs softly and reluctantly pulls himself from the other man's clenching heat, stroking down his flank and slaps his ass firmly, moving to at the head of the bed, back against the headboard. He smirks down at Punk, still sprawled, face down, a look of mounting irritation on his face.

"C'mon, I'm sure you can do a much better job of _fucking_ yourself." John strokes his cock lazily as he watches the unreadable emotions flicker through Punk's eyes, he's impossibly difficult to read, when you think you understand what one expression means, it turns out to be something else entirely. "C'mon, Mr _Best in the World_." His eyes narrow and he crawls up the bed to straddle John's legs, a slight scowl twisting his lips, as he takes John's cock in hand and slowly lowers himself down the length. "Ah, _fuck_, Punk." John murmurs, he's inclined to agree that Punk's ass, at least, is the best in the World, he's certain no woman he's ever been with has been this tight. Punk's body pulses around his cock and it's all John can do to keep himself under control, calmly observing the way Punk's hair is beginning to stick up at the back, the way he's sweating the gel out of it, the way his skin is flushed, glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looks so much like how he does in the ring, so much like Punk and _nothing_ like Phil. John grabs the back of the man's neck and pulls him closer for a kiss, exploring the readily opened mouth with his tongue. He snags the little ring in Punk's lip and gets a sharp blow to the back of the head, the kiss broken harshly, Punk's eyes cold with annoyance.

"Not a fucking chew toy, Boy Scout." He snarls as he leans back and starts fucking himself on John's cock, raising and falling with hard but unhurried movements, his pace deliberate and certain. He fucks like he wrestles, all technique and natural talent. He moves with grace, riding John's cock with distressing elegance, moving up and down, rolling his lithe hips, driving John's length deeper and deeper inside of him. John is torn between watching Punk's body move over his cock or watching the man's face, his head is thrown back but his eyes are decidedly focussed on John's, watching him with careful attention. "Touch me." John raises an eyebrow at the command but does take Punk's cock in his hand and strokes him at the same pace Punk's set. Punk's eyes finally close, he makes a soft subtle noise, a gentle huff of air that sends a tingle down John's spine, inspires him to buck his hips and drive his cock into to Punk. "Ah, fuck! Again." Without thought, John does as he is bid, rocking his hips up into the Punk as he comes down, find rhythm as easily as they do in the ring, matching each other's pace and style, complimenting each other beautifully. John watches Punk ride him, watches his own hand move over Punk's cock, his hips bucking up into the tight body moving over him. "Close." Punk gasps out, John can feel a smirk forming on his lips, now that it's been mentioned, he can sense how close Punk must be, his breathing is fast and irregular, his balls look tight in their sack, his movements losing their rhythm.

"Come for me, Punk." John mutters softly, giving Punk's cock another stroke, the man comes quietly; his head back and turned to the side, the tendons in it standing out. John is surprised when instead of collapsing against his now cum covered chest; Punk redoubles his efforts to bring John off, moving faster, harder. John is certain he's never come harder, his vision darkens and he has no idea if he screamed or not.

John lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, Punk wasn't in the bed when he _recovered_, recovery really being the most accurate description for what he just did. Sex has _never_ been like that before, never has it felt so in tune and yet so disconnected to the person he was sleeping with, fucking Punk can't be reconciled with what John knows of Phil. Phil doesn't sleep around, Phil only sleeps with women, women he's in a committed relationship with but Phil is and yet isn't Punk. The whole thing makes his head hurt and all John _really_ wants is to fall asleep but he has to make sure that the sexual tension that he and Punk indulged, hasn't adversely affected his friendship with Phil.

"You okay there, buddy?" Phil's face appears over John, his hair damp and limp, a hotel towel around his shoulders, he must have taken a shower. John nods and sits up on the bed.

"What happened here?" A ludicrous question that deserves the cheery bark of laughter it gets from Phil.

"We had sex, John-boy." Phil sits on the end of the bed and grins. "You wanna confess your undying love to me?" His grin gets bigger; he looks so much younger with this big, almost goofy grin on his face.

"I'm not in _love_ with you, Phil." John rubs the back of his neck, hoping he hasn't wiped that happy grin off of Phil's face, he looks genuinely happy so very rarely.

"Ha, good!" John chances a glance at Phil, the man is still grinning cheerfully. "So we chalk that all up to alien sex pollen and move on, yes?" Phil gets off the bed with a wink and starts putting his shoes on.

"Alien sex pollen?" John somehow doesn't think it's going to be that easy. He has no idea how he's going to be able to concentrate on wrestling Punk when he knows how those sharp eyes look with lust dancing in them, how close to dishevelled with sex, dishevelled with wrestling looks.

"_Clearly_ John-boy, you don't watch enough shitty sci-fi movies." John laughs, Phil is leaning against the door jab, his overly bright grin softened into something more familiar, a smile John has seen him wear when he answers the phone with a _Cabana _or when Kofi says something nerdy and funny or when John walks into a locker room.

"Next time I can't sleep, I'll come visit your room, I'll even bring you popcorn." John gets out of bed with a laugh and walks to the bathroom, he pauses, stands feeling slightly awkward in the doorway, naked and resisting the urge to hide his gentiles. "Now, piss off, Phil. Some of us enjoy sleeping." John hears an amused good night followed by the door to his hotel room closing. He's glad that this incident seems to have positively reinforced their relationship; it was Phil in a good mood that left John's room. The one problem John has now is that he wants Punk back, he's going to have to work out if he can have both Punk and Phil, he's going to have to work out if he can somehow handle the curious problem of being Phil's friend and Punk's fuck buddy because that is exactly what John wants.

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><p><em>AN The title comes from my own curious obsession with kayfabe and the general oddness implicit in it, it's more than being an actor with a role, it's rather like living two lives, the person you really are is someone you aren't able to be as often as the character you play for the audience. (It fascinates me even more with older wrestlers, having to follow kayfabe to the extent that heels and faces wouldn't even stay in the same hotels.)_

Yes, I'm still on holiday and yes, everything else is on hold till I'm home... unless I'm stuck on more trains.

_**batwolfgirl** I hope that this did justice to your prompt, sorry if it's not exactly what you were hoping for but it's where my mind (and the epically dull train journey I was on) went with it._

**_Reviews are always nice, so if you enjoyed it or if you hated let me know. Requests or smutty prompts are always cheerfully accepted. :3 _**


	2. YinYang

Warnings: 3nd person PoV, slash (Cena/Punk), profanity, curious play on kayfabe.

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><p>It's only been once that John's managed to be Punk's fuck buddy, and it's something that he's been desperately focussed on trying to work out how to repeat. Phil, however, seems to be desperately focussed on running himself ragged. Backstage he's constantly bundled up in heat pads and a bad mood, a carefully observed exclusion zone around him, no one willing to step too far into it for fear of not leaving intact. John, as much as he'd like to enter the exclusion zone, isn't exactly certain how to go about it, he's aware that there are few people who would be permitted in, and of these few, not one is actually employed by the WWE. So, Punk, and it is more Punk than Phil that's present these days, is generally left to his own devices, snapping and snarling, being even more of an ill-tempered addition to the roster than usual.<p>

Arriving early to arenas is something John would rather not do more often than is necessary. He'd much rather be in the gym, or doing something more meaningful, the never-ending Make-A-Wish visits foremost, but his elbow is bothering him and he wants to see a trainer about it. So that means getting there before the rush of people wanting to be tended to, only he's not the first on the scene. In the trainer's room, is a surprisingly cheerful looking Punk, and a pretty, little Asian woman, sticking needles into his knee, laughing at his half-assed attempts at flirtation.

"John-Boy." It seems John was wrong in his assessment of Punk's presence, the voice that greets him is very much Phil. He smiles up at John from his prone position, something lazily content in his eyes. "You here to be a voodoo doll too?" He grins, and the trainer snorts.

"How many times, it's not voodoo." She shakes her head and smiles at John. "Have a seat, this one's nearly done." John watches her dainty little fingers, slowly inserting the needles into Phil's flesh, her touch light and quick. It's not something that should be quite so fascinating to him, but the sight of the thin slivers of metal penetrating Phil is depressingly arousing. He perches on a stool near the woman and smiles at her.

"Nǐ hǎo." It's kind of silly, but John does like to show off his Mandarin, the woman turns to him, confusion on her face.

"_Cough, racist, cough_." Phil mutters a smirk on his face. The woman shakes her head and swats his thigh.

"Quiet you or I'll stick some of these where the sun don't shine." Phil's eyes widen at the threat and he lies still, whistling something, playing at innocent. "I was born and bred in the US, don't speak a lick of Chinese." She smiles at John, still carefully inserting the needles, the light glinting off them drawing his attention.

"Yeah, and weren't you saying your grandparents were from Hong Kong, anyways? How's your Cantonese, Boy Scout?" John glances up at Phil, and meets the calculated gaze of Punk, that lazy _I know something you don't_ smirk on his face. John fidgets beneath that stare and glances back down at the silver needles

"Hey, can I try?" John asks the woman, and she shrugs, fishing a pen out of her pocket and making a small dot on the side of Punk's knee. She hands John a needle and instructs him how to insert it.

"I get no say in this?" Punk scowls down at them, eyes narrowed. The woman swats his thigh again.

"Quiet you, like Super Cena's gonna mess up." John almost wants to protest but he doesn't see the point in it, not really, if Punk is here, The Champ may as well be too. His hand shakes slightly as he lines the needle up with the little dot, his eyes flickering up to Punk, then back down to focus. When it first punctures Punk's skin, he sucks the air in through his teeth, a little hiss of a noise that draws John's attention as he eases it a little deeper.

"Not bad." The trainer says, a smile on her face, she makes a few more dots and stands. "The queue's getting long... _So _I'll leave you in Super Cena's capable hands, Punk." She leaves the room, clearly intent on dealing with other people milling about outside, the door swinging closed behind her.

"I..." John starts, staring at the little dots on Punk's soft smooth skin, and the little needles waiting to be inserted into him.

"Get on with it, Boy Scout." Punk's voice is laced with utterly contemptuous boredom, and John nods, slowly repeating his actions of the first with the second needle. This time Punk doesn't hiss, instead he makes a soft _quiet_ little moan. The third needle gets a louder one, more like the noises he'd made when John had fucked him. By the time all of the dots have a little silver needle in them, John's cock is half-hard and he's sure that Punk was making those noises solely for that purpose. John moves to stand by the head of the bench Punk's laying on, gazing down the length of his body, focusing on the thin delicate needles sticking out of his flesh.

"Something on your mind, Boy Scout?" Punk's lazy drawl drifts up to him, but John ignores it, instead, leaning over him and flicks at one needle gently. "Oww." He says dryly.

"That hurt, Punk?" John asks softly, painfully aware that his erection is so very close to Punk's smart little mouth.

"The pain is excruciating." Still dry and unimpressed sounding, John flicks the needle again, and this time Punk hisses. "Stop fucking playing with them, you'll fuck up the chi"

"Chi?" John pulls back, a smirk on his face. "What the hell do you know about chi, Punk?" His thumb brushes over Punk's bottom lip, swipes the little ring there the wrong way. Punk's tongue flicks it to lie properly, then suck his lip into his mouth before John can play with the ring again.

"Not a fucking toy." He sneers up at John, his eyes narrowed. John shrugs, and smirks down at Punk. "Open your fucking pants instead of standing there like a fucking idiot." He snaps, and John looks down at him in confusion. "Oh, please... You're rubbing your cock all over my face." John almost blushes at Punk's words, and gets nothing but an overly amused laugh for it. "C'mon, Boy Scout, we ain't got all day." Punk squirms up the bench, so his head is hanging over the edge and opens his mouth.

"You're sure?" John cradles his jaw, opening Punk's mouth a little wider. Punk rolls his eyes in response, and John shakes his head, opening his fly and drawing his cock out, rubbing the head over Punk's lips. He makes an impatient noise and takes the head into his mouth, sucking lightly, his tongue dabbing at the slit. John rocks carefully forward, easing a little more of his length into Punk. A sharp slap to his leg has John scrambling to pull back, staring down at Punk worriedly.

"Fuck me." His tone leaden. "Fuck my throat and come quickly, we ain't got long." John opens his mouth to speak, wanting to protest at Punk's demand. "Don't fucking argue with me, fuck me." John eases his cock back into Punk and feels hands on his ass, pulling him forward sharply. Punk's gag reflex is triggered by the rough thrust, and John moves to pull back, but the hands hold him firmly in place, and Punk seems to be relaxing around him. It doesn't take long before John gets a gentle swat to the ass, and he takes that as his cue to start fucking Punk in earnest. Soft gagging noises accompany almost every one of John's thrusts, Punk's chest raising and falling rapidly as he fucks the clenching throat harshly. He's probably going to regret this once he comes but he's lost in the moment, the desperate scratching hands of Punk, the feeling of his occasionally spasming throat, the _noises_ he makes, they all conspire to drive John on, to make him fuck that little bit harder. He manages to come somewhat silently, feeling Punk's throat working to swallow his cum. He pulls back and stares down at Punk's face. His eyes are watering, his skin's flushed red, and he's panting for air. The trainer is going to know something's happened in her absence, it's obvious that something has happened between them.

"Hmm, you over sticking things in me now?" He croaks, his voice hoarse from the fucking John gave his throat, his eyes narrowed and calculating. John glances along his body, looking to see any sign of arousal, but there's none, the only thing sticking up are those little silver needles.

"You didn't..." John trails off, swiping his thumb over Punk's lip, catching the drip of cum resting there on his thumb and offering it to Punk; he snorts dismissively but does lap it from John's finger.

"I didn't what? Come?" He laughs, and shifts slightly; he looks restless, like he'd rather be anywhere but in this little room with John.

"Enjoy it." He mutters, staring down at Punk, another snort and John's saved from more ill-tempered complaining by Punk's phone going off, a text message diverting his attention.

"You owe me, Boy Scout." He mutters, not looking up from the screen as John flops onto a stool and stares at the sleek leg in front of him, focusing on its little silver forest of needles. Eventually, the trainer comes back into the room, looking at John strangely, her eyes narrowed, and he shrugs in response. Punk glances up from his phone, finished replying to his text message.

"Can we take these outta me now?" He nods down to the needles still protruding from his knee. The woman nods vaguely and starts removing the needles, John fidgets on the stool he's slumped in. "So, Boy Scout, what did you _come _here for?" Punk asks once he's unpinned. John flushes slightly, scowling at Punk's back as he leaves. He's not entirely certain what Punk will demand in payment for this incident, but he more than a little curious.

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><p><strong>alizabethianrose:<strong>Finally got round to that needle prompt you gave me forever ago. ;) Hope it's okay. :)

_I'm working on the various prompts people have given me, so hopefully if you've made a request of me, it'll be along anon. (Sorry for the wait!)_

_**Reviews are always nice... Leave one? Please.**_


	3. WeightCounter-Weight

Warnings: 3nd person PoV, slash (Cena/Punk), profanity, curious play on kayfabe.

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><p>John can't sleep, his mind is filled with the oddest juxtaposition of thoughts, worry over surgery, worry over booking, and hope that Punk will decide to call in his favour sooner rather than later. Ideas of when, where and what he might want won't leave John alone. They distract him every time he closes his eyes, images of Punk riding his cock in that hotel room, or chocking on it in the trainer's room, along with a thousand imagine scenarios haunt his brain. Whilst he doesn't overly mind, he would like some sleep, so once more in a desperate bid to tire himself out, he ends up working out in the early hours of the morning. This occasion the third this week alone.<p>

"I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy?" John glances up at the sound of Phil's voice. He'd rather hoped to get the hotel gym all to himself, but he should have expected the WWE's resident insomniac to decide that three a.m. was a good time to go for a run on a treadmill.

"Have you any idea how boring it is _resting_." John mutters, taking a grip on the bar of his weights once more. Phil leans against a wall and watches him, something bored and uninterested in his eyes.

"I fractured my skull once." He says with a shrug, as John clean and jerks the weight, holding it over his head for a few seconds before dropping it. "Very impressive." Phil's eyes narrow, something of Punk creeping in at the edges.

"I didn't know that... How the hell did you manage to fracture your skull?" John eyes him carefully, torn between wanting a friendly conversation with Phil, and paying back Punk for his services rendered in the trainer's room not so long ago.

"Gravity." Phil laughs and wanders over to a treadmill, slipping his headphones on and starting to run.

_Gravity_, John shakes his head, he should know better than to ask Phil a simple question and expect a simple answer. The answer will most probably be on his DVD though; most everything else is, so _perhaps_ John should watch it. He tires of free weights relatively quickly, and moves on to the bench, sparing a quick glance at Phil. He's still running at the sort of pace that suggests he's there for the long haul, the pounding of his feet rhythmic, his sweat making the fabric of his shirt cling to his back, the loose shorts aren't helping John's enjoyment of the view, not hindering but not helping as much as Punk's trunks would. He turns away from watching Phil, and concentrates on loading up the bar with plates.

"I do believe, I said you _owed_ me." That lazy drawl is all Punk, and John shivers slightly, feeling the heat from Punk's sweaty body so close behind him. "Strip, and lie down, Boy Scout." John nods dumbly, and complies with the request, lying on his back on the bench, watching Punk as he pulls his shirt and shorts off, leaving him in sneakers and a smirk. "Tsk, tsk... A little ambitious on this, weren't we?" He smirks at John and removes every one of the plates, resting the bar on its end once he's done, regarding John critically. "Get hard." He picks up his shorts and tosses John a condom produced from the pocket in them. It would appear that sex had been on Punk's mind when he entered this little hotel gym, his shorts pocket also yielding a bottle of lube. He straddles John's thighs, resting the bar by the bench, and looks at John expectantly.

"Right, right." John takes his cock in his hand and starts stroking himself to hardness, eyes trained on Punk as he coats his fingers and starts prepping himself, moaning softly when his fingers graze his prostate. Once he's hard John rolls the condom down his dick. Punk coats his sheathed cock with lube, then grins at him, wiping his lube covered hand on John's chest, and swinging the bar round, holding it over John's neck. "Hold this a sec." John takes the bar from him and stares up at Punk in confusion, but all he does is rise up, and position himself over John's cock, sliding down it slowly.

"Fuck, Punk..." John moans once he's buried inside of Punk's body. The damn smirk is still on Punk's face as he wraps his hands around the bar and tugs it from John's hands.

"Hands down." He says, the smirk unwavering, and John takes hold of his hips instead, smiling up at Punk with something he hopes is sexy or at least nonthreatening, because that bar is dangerously close to John's neck and he's slightly worried what might happen next. Punk's eyes narrow as he presses the bar down over John's throat, a slight smirk still on his face, as panic rises in John.

"_Punk_." He's never done anything like this before, he's not entirely certain he trusts Punk to put him in such a vulnerable position, even if being inside him is beyond pleasurable and making it hard to focus, there's more than a part of John that's incredibly worried in this moment.

"Don't worry Boy Scout... Not gonna kill you." Punk winks and slow raises up on John's cock, using the bar as leverage. John stares up at him, watching him carefully, not entirely reassured by his words. The faster Punk fucks himself on John's cock, the more pressure there is on the bar across his throat, making it harder and harder to breath. He can feel himself fading, his hands frantically scrabbling at Punk's own. He leans back, stilling on John's erection, releasing the pressure on John's throat, letting him get big gulps of air, the rush of oxygen filling him with renewed vigour, and he bucks his hips up into Punk. As soon as he does, Punk's weight is back on the bar, pressing down, that cool, collected little smirk still on his lips. "This is _my_ show Boy Scout, no audience participation." He slowly starts riding John once more, slowly moving over John's cock, gasping when he gets the angle right to stimulate his prostate. Again Punk speeds up, rising and falling faster, the pressure on the bar increasing in increments, until John's vision starts blurring, and Punk slows down, easing up again.

"Punk." John groans, his voice a hoarse little croak, he's not sure what he's trying to convey, but he wants something. Punk smirks at him and speeds up once more, squeezing the muscles of his ass around John's length.

"You close Boy Scout?" He sounds calm, collected, despite the sweat running down his flushed skin, and his leaking cock. "You wanna come?" John manages a vague nod, and Punk rides him harder, faster, the bar pressing down firmly, leaving John on the edge of blacking out, when the bar's removed and John comes, trembling and gasping, eyes screwed shut, body shuddering. It takes a long time for him to gather himself from what was an incredibly intense orgasm, but he opens his eyes to the sight of Punk, head thrown back as he comes over John's chest. He stays where he is for a few moments, chest heaving, head bowed, using the bar turned end down as support. "Well..." He says, standing, stooping to fetch his shorts and pulling them on. "I'd say we're even." He picks up his shirt and glances up at John, a satiated smile on his face. "Might wanna you know... _Clean_ up John-Boy." John nods, eyes trained on the splash of Punk's cum on his chest.

"Yeah... Next time, Punk." He mutters, hearing the other man leaving the little gym, heading back to bed or somewhere else entirely. John trails a finger through the cum on his chest, and laps it away, considering when and where next time will be, because there's one thing he's certain of, there_ will_ be a next time.

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><p>Many thanks to all the reviewers: <strong>R<strong>**ebellecherry, Sub-Pion, **alizabethianrose,** littleone1839 and Mini-Batman**

**alizabethianrose: **And the choking prompt you gave forever ago done as well, with super special thanks to **Sub-Pion **for their inspiring suggestion!

_I've got nothing planned for this, like at all... If you know me then you know that is not like me... So if you wanna gimme a prompt pleas do, kay? Thanks! :3_

_**Reviews are always nice... Leave one? **_


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